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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26445169">till all you see is my ghost</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagymnasia/pseuds/imagymnasia'>imagymnasia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>My Heart Beats for Mercievain [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canonical Character Death, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Panic Attacks, Sylcedes Week 2020, dw he's actually pretty good at it when he tries, even if it's from Sylvain, it's about time Mercie got some therapy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:42:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,173</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26445169</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagymnasia/pseuds/imagymnasia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>For Sylcedes Week 2020<br/>2: <b>mirrors</b> / masks</p><hr/><p>“What I mean is, if you need, you know, some time, no one would blame you if…” Mercedes is smiling, now, and that makes him stop. “What? What did I say?”</p><p>“Oh, Sylvain,” and he hates the way it sounds fake, patronizing, placating, “that’s very sweet of you. Really. I’m happy to know you thought of me.”</p><p><i>How could I not?</i> he wants to ask and doesn’t.</p><p>“I’m just looking out for a friend,” he says instead. “A friend who’s hurting.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz, implied bg Felix/Annette</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>My Heart Beats for Mercievain [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1921615</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sylcedes Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>till all you see is my ghost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s been three days since Fort Merceus; two since they returned to Garreg Mach to make the final preparations for the invasion of Enbarr. The Kingdom Army is exhausted, and Sylvain is no exception. Between the marching, the training, the council meetings, and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>worrying</span>
  </em>
  <span>, there hasn’t been much time for rest. He’s long stopped trying to lighten the mood at war council with his usual clowning; it doesn’t work, and his energy is better put to use devising a proper strategy, anyhow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even the perkiest of his friends are feeling it. Annette’s stopped humming before mealtime, and Ashe laughs a lot less than usual. He’s not sure if Dedue has been to the greenhouse in months. They’re all so focused on making the next battle count— and they should be— that they’ve forgotten about anything else. The Blue Lions haven’t worked this efficiently since they were classmates, and if he weren’t so tired Sylvain would be proud of them. Part of him still is, when he has a moment to rest. But then it’s off to another meeting or running drills with his battalion, and he forgets to be proud and just wants to sleep for a week.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there’s Mercedes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s the only one taking everything in stride— no signs of exhaustion, no tight smiles. She doesn’t seem tired, or stressed, or somber. Instead, she seems… normal. As if all the preparations for what will be their final battle are commonplace. As if what happened at the Fort had been just another skirmish. Routine, like all the rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that’s how Sylvain knows that something is wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He catches her after dinner, stopping her on the bridge in the quiet night air. He’s had to jog to catch up—- Saints, he’s so tired of running. And walking. And riding. And just </span>
  <em>
    <span>moving in </span>
  </em>
  <span>general— but it’s his own fault for not realizing sooner that she’d already left the dining hall . It had been nearly ten full minutes before he’d even realized she was gone, but his own intuition and Annette’s intimate knowledge of her schedule confirmed his suspicions and then he’d been off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mercedes, wait up!” He pauses just long enough to catch his breath when he reaches her, and Mercedes is as patient as always as she waits for him to speak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t have to run,” she says, but Sylvain dismisses that with a wave and stands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mind if I walk with you?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ran all the way here from dinner just to ask me that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was hoping we could talk.” He glances at the cathedral, looming silently above them. It feels more judgmental in the moonless night than by the light of day, with its broken towers and flickering candle-lit windows. “Sorry, I know you’re on your way to pray, but it’s kind of important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” she answers. “The goddess will still be there when we’re done. I’m sure she won’t mind, especially if it’s important. What’s on your mind?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvain isn’t sure if that’s a joke or not, but he’s not going to question it. Instead he leans against the stone wall and meets her eyes. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Mercedes blinks at him, stunned and a little perplexed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why wouldn’t I be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve just been acting strangely since we got back.” His fingers drum against the stone as he considers his words carefully. “I mean, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>seem </span>
  </em>
  <span>fine, but—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes that placid smile of hers is infuriating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I don’t understand,” he continues, as if she’d never said a word, “is why you’re pretending.” Mercedes doesn’t answer, doesn’t blink, doesn’t react. “I mean, I get it. There’s a war going on. Lots to think about, lots to do. People are fighting, and dying, and we’re leaving for Enbarr in just a few days and that only feels like hours but—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s projecting, losing the point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I mean is, if you need, you know, some time, no one would blame you if…” Mercedes is smiling, now, and that makes him stop. “What? What did I say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Sylvain,” and he hates the way it sounds fake, patronizing, placating, “that’s very sweet of you. Really. I’m happy to know you thought of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How could I not?</span>
  </em>
  <span> he wants to ask and doesn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just looking out for a friend,” he says instead. “A friend who’s hurting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your brother just </span>
  <em>
    <span>died</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Mercedes. We killed him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t mean to snap at her, and he regrets it the moment the words get away from him. Her smile falters, and he’s not sure if it’s from his tone or the mention of her brother. Sylvain scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. I just— I know… something about that. It bothers me seeing you pretend, that’s all. You don’t have to lie about being okay, you know? It’s— it’s okay to be sad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words don’t feel like enough, but Sylvain’s intellect is factual, not emotional. He’s not good at this sort of thing and he knows it, knows he’s fumbling in the dark and a little too close to some uncomfortable things of his own. But saying nothing isn’t an option. He can’t let her do this to herself. He can’t let her make the same stupid self-destructive choices he has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Then her smile is back, and he’s relieved to see that it’s sad. Sadness means it’s genuine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Sylvain. I appreciate that,” she says softly. “You’re right: I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>upset about Emile. I just have— I want to—” She pauses, careful with her words, and he’s surprised that it hurts as much as it does. “It would be unacceptable to me if I wasn’t able to do my part. I’m not the only one suffering.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can see the sense in that, even if he hates it. Mercedes is </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> sensible. It’s infuriating. “I know that, but I still think—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you very much for caring, Sylvain. It means a lot to me. But I’ll do my grieving when this war is over— when there’s time,” she insists, smiling that sweet, sad smile. “For now… I’m going to go pray.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches her turn away and doesn’t have the heart to follow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next morning finds them all in the cardinals’ room again. War council has just finished and there are preparations to be made, yet with the exception of Dimitri and the Professor the rest of the army’s generals linger. There is work to be done, always work to be done, but none of them seem particularly inclined to begin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not unusual for Mercedes to volunteer for clean up duty, although there’s rarely much to be done; some glasses, a few pitchers of water. Maybe a broken piece or two of the board, if Dimitri is in a foul mood. (He isn’t, today. At least, no more than planning a war calls for.) Annette joins her, humming a vaguely-familiar tune.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvain can’t help but notice Felix keeping time with his fingers on the table while he pretends to look over Ingrid’s notes, but he keeps that to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvain leans back in his chair, eyes poring over the map as if some detail had escaped him. Ashe is beside him, talking away like they’re students again and it’s the eve of their first big battle. Sylvain can tell it’s nervous chatter and should probably reassure him, but he’s barely paying attention; instead his senses zero in on the board and the figures, and he hopes there’s not something they’ve all missed. He can’t explain why, but something about the capitol’s layout doesn’t sit right with him...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of shattering glass jolts him back to reality, but it takes him a moment to catch his bearings as the rest of the room comes back into focus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mercie?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Annette stands beside her at the window, one of the decanters now in sharp, glittering pieces between them on the stone floor. Mercedes has her back to them both; in the reflection of the window, her eyes are wide and fixed on her own face mirrored back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvain has had enough panic attacks to know one when he sees it; he’s up and out of his seat in moments, practically vaulting over the table to shove past the others and pulling Mercedes away from the window. He turns her to face him, wraps his hands around hers, and looks her in the eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mercedes, it’s me. It’s Sylvain. Just breathe. You’re going to be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The others are still crowding them; he can feel Annette at his elbow, knows Ashe is right behind her, can even see a scowling Felix at the edge of the crowd. Sylvain feels hemmed in and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> the one having a crisis, so he orders them all from the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give her some space. No, never mind, just get out— you’re making it worse,” he says. When no one moves, he growls, “Go! I got this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the voice he uses on the battlefield, the one his battalion follows into danger without hesitation, and it seems to shock everyone into motion. Bodies file out, some in swift obedience, others with hesitance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>a suggestion,” he snaps at Ingrid, who looks surprised but scurries from the room anyway. He’ll apologize for that later, but right now Mercedes needs him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Annette is the last straggler, her lip trembling as she looks to him for reassurance. Sylvain offers it to her with a smile and nods, and that seems to be all she needs before she nods back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You take care of her,” she murmurs, and then she, too, is gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mercedes, breathe. Breathe with me.” Taking her fist in his, Sylvain pries her fingers open gently, one by one, and places her palm against his chest. He’s thankful he hadn’t worn his full armor to council this morning, especially when Mercie buries her fingers in his shirt and clings to him with trembling hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I— I saw— I thought I saw—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” He doesn’t, but that doesn’t matter. “Just focus on me right now, yeah? Just breathe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merecedes leans in and sobs something into his chest; it’s repetitive, plaintive, and he can’t make it out until he sets her hat aside to smooth back her hair. She follows the movement, turning her face to the side and letting the words escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw him, I saw him, I saw him—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvain’s breath catches; this time, it’s his heart that shatters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Mercedes, no. No, it wasn’t—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But denial won’t help her, not until she’s calm, not until her shaking stops and her breathing slows and she can think with a clearer head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can talk about it later, if you like, but I need you to breathe with me right now. Can you do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y-yes, you’re right, I’m sorry—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright. I promise. Just breathe, okay? Ready?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvain walks her through the steps, calming her, keeping the present at the forefront of her mind. He murmurs reassurance in her ear, asks her things like the color of his shirt and how many chairs stand round the table, hugs her back when she wraps her arms around his chest, counts the seconds between inhale and exhale until the worst of it is over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re sitting again, away from the windows and the broken decanter and the water on the floor; she hadn’t wanted to leave the war room, when he’d asked, so he’s settled them with Mercie facing the back of the room and Sylvain filling her line of sight in the opposite chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still holding her hands; they feel so small in his own as he rubs little circles into them with his thumbs. They’ve stopped shaking, which is a relief, but Mercedes makes no move to pull away and so Sylvain doesn’t stop, content to let the silence stretch. It’s surprising to find that silence comfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she murmurs, the first words she’s spoken since they sat down. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never— never done that before…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s nothing to apologize for, Mercedes,” he says; maybe too quickly, maybe too adamant, but it’s the truth and she needs to hear it. “Happens to the best of us.” And Mercedes definitely qualifies as </span>
  <em>
    <span>the best of us</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if anyone asks him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He offers her some water, and when she nods he stands, slipping his hands from hers with reluctance. When he promises to return soon, it’s as much for his sake as for hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mercedes sips the water with delicate grace, and Sylvain is content to let her collect herself in silence. When half the glass is gone, she sets it on the table beside her and sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sylvain, I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to talk about it,” he says. “If you don’t want to, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I do.” She lifts her eyes from her lap and the tearful look she gives him quells his protests. “Please. Will you listen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, unable to find his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mercedes takes a deep, slow breath. Fidgets with the ribbon on her dress. Tucks her hair behind her ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It seems so silly now, doesn’t it?” she asks finally, offering him a smile. It’s not silly at all, but his heart’s still in his throat and all he can do is take her hand and give it a squeeze. Her smile warms when he does; she squeezes his fingers back. “Thank you. I know, I know, I shouldn’t say such things. But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> silly, jumping at ghosts like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mercedes, no one thinks—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” She sighs, and her head turns toward the window. “I just really thought it was—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t.” Sylvain puts a hand on her cheek, turns her gaze back to him. Stunned, Mercie’s wide blue eyes stare into his own. “Don’t look. He’s not there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blue of her eyes starts to waver. “I know,” she says softly, and the tears spill over and down her cheeks before she grinds the heels of her hands into them to stem the flow. “I know he’s not, and it’s my fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mercedes is sobbing, now, curling in on herself and leaning into his chest. “It’s my fault!” she sobs, shoulders shaking, tears leaving dark stains on his shirt. “If I had gone back for him, maybe he’d still be here! Maybe he wouldn’t have become the Death Knight. Maybe he wouldn’t be dead!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvain only knows what little she’s told her about her life before coming to Garreg Mach, but he knows enough to recognize that what she’s saying— what she’s blaming herself for— is total garbage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were just a kid,” he reminds her. “You couldn’t have known what would—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I could have gone back for him! I could have </span>
  <em>
    <span>tried!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the circumstances, despite the differences between them, her words sound all too familiar; it makes Sylvain’s skin crawl, hearing the same blame come from her lips that he’s bludgeoned himself with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and reaches deep inside himself for what he says next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, Mercedes,” he says, lifting her from his chest to look her in the eye. She’s still sniffling, still swiping desperately at the tears that won’t stop, and he wishes he had a handkerchief to give her. “I know what it’s like to feel responsible for someone else’s bullshit, and it’s just that: bullshit. I know you loved your brother. And I know that your feelings are… </span>
  <em>
    <span>complicated</span>
  </em>
  <span>, right now. About the sort of person he was, even though he’s family, even though you cared for him— and that’s hard. Hell, when Miklan died, I—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he’s not quite ready to have that conversation, and this isn’t about him, anyway. He clears his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My point is, I know some of what you’re feeling. It’s easy to blame yourself for what happened in the past, but it’s not your fault. Feel what you need to feel, but don’t feed yourself lies. Don’t do that to yourself.” His hand finds its way to her cheek again, using the end of his sleeve to wipe her tears. “You’re better than that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mercedes closes her eyes and leans into his touch; with every gentle pass, her breathing slows. When he’s done, Sylvain smiles. “Better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm,” she hums, and before he can pull away Mercedes places her hand atop his. Beneath his calloused fingers, her skin feels feverish. “Your hands, they’re cool.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sylvain feels his own face flush, but he chuckles. Maybe she won’t notice how nervous it sounds. “Sorry, they’re usually pretty warm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she says, “I don’t mind. It feels nice.” Mercedes opens her eyes and smiles. Really smiles. It’s like the sun rising, and Sylvain’s heart beats in double-time at the sight of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She giggles at that, releasing his hand. “I’m sorry. I’ve been too forward.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“N-no, it’s fine,” and his other hand finds the back of his neck, rubbing a sore spot that doesn’t exist. “Whatever you need, Mercedes. Really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Sylvain, but I’ve already taken up so much of your time...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can take as much as you like,” he says without thinking. Goddess, why did he say that? “I-I mean, uh. If it’s you, you can… you know. You can have all of it. If that’s what you need.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Damn it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that’s even worse. Sylvain is sure Mercedes is about to laugh him out of the council room, to shove him away for </span>
  <em>
    <span>hitting on her after a panic attack Sylvain what the hell</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but Mercedes only looks thoughtful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, if that’s really alright,” she says, and Sylvain might actually die from relief, “would you mind staying just a bit longer? Just for a little while?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. I can do that.” He smiles, opening his arms for the hug she falls into, nestling against him like she belongs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she says again, sighing against his chest. Her hair tickles his chin, but he daren’t move; he wants this moment to last. It’s not often he does something right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels </span>
  </em>
  <span>so right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” says Mercedes, so suddenly it almost startles him, “you’re pretty good at this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, hugs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Talking,” and when she lifts her head, Mercedes is grinning. “But those, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why else do you guys keep me around?” he laughs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mercedes frowns. “I’m serious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. Thanks, Mercedes.” That seems to satisfy her, and she rests her head against him again. A pause, then it’s his turn to break the silence: “And so was I.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks up again, confused wrinkles between her brows. “About what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My time. You can have it, whenever you need. If you ever need to talk again, or, you know, just need a good hug, I’m your guy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mercedes giggles and gives him a squeeze. Sylvain might just combust at the sound. “I’ll hold you to that, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah… I’m counting on it."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks as always for reading! Follow me on <a href="https://twitter.com/imagymnasia">twitter</a>! There's more Sylcedes to come!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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